Friday, August 29, 2014
The magnet of my walks
Sunday, August 17, 2014 - about 16:30, on the banks of the Canal du Loing

I wanted to find a place where there would be nobody, and then I don’t want to be alone. I wanted to disappear and exist. Watch the world without the need to be part of it.

There were these little beasts that walk on water and two small dragonflies flying together. The family of swans that sometimes rode around the mill has arrived. And they stayed around a little. A little jealous bird passed almost under my nose, between me and swans - that were already close - so fast that truly see him was impossible

I thought If the birds invite themselves, it's probably just a matter of time. On the opposite riverbank people was passing. On mine no risk, I went a little further than the path, where it is not supposed to exist in fact.
Swan necks were ascending and descending, they always came back in a half-heart position.
If I stay long enough, at some point, inevitably, if the angle is right, the two necks will cross in the air and there will be an illusion of a perfect heart, even wink one's eyes.
I brought two flat peaches, in case. It was nevertheless a little hard of sounding expect nothing.


There is a very long time, my escapades were urban, nature was passing behind the windows of cars, trains, buses sometimes, or else in television, during rare periods when there was a home. The city was all I loved, nature I didn't care, it never misses me.

And then it happened, as always it seems when you love something too strong or too close, maybe the gaze on it decrease lucidity, too much confidence take away mistrust'zest required to keep a healthy distance, you end up with a proprietary outlook while we don't own anything, by dint things get damaged or disappear.

Me and the countryside! It just made me laugh, and gape rather quickly.

The noise, the crowd, be at the heart of what we believe to belong, as if the people around you could define the frame of what you are. For some time it is true, the feeling of being watched all the time, all those eyes which were able to see me, I preferred imagine it was true instead of checking nobody was watching, it should have  had experience a lot of eyes .

Most of the time what we doesn't want to do is what impose oneself, what we want to avoid at all costs is what we end up causing, or that's because the crosscurrent is the default program in some people. Town dwelling I was,  but all wasn't for the best in the best of worlds, on the contrary. The idea that the city wouldn't be a world to fit me, fifteen years after I left, remains unacceptable, even if it must be good sometimes to face the facts, in my case, it seems , that doesn't work.

When you get to the countryside without having chosen it, you decide sulkily and stubbornly to not put a foot in there. Because that's how I will no longer talk to anyone, I would stay in my room like an Emily Dickinson, you close your eyes, ears, nostrils, however you try. But a living being, whatever the life that dwells in him, can't live without sharing, this is a deeply rooted conviction in my mind, such as faith.

Life is an interaction. As lonely as it is, any being eventually come into connection with what surrounds it, even without meaning to, you get closer from another life, any of, magnetized as long as you have the will to live. Looking at the matter, sometimes it's what I think, it seems that the goal is to amalgamate, why dust cluster in heaps under the beds? Even in a desert of stones we would end up given a life to which seems inert, to love it, perhaps.

Alone into the wild, that's what I see, the irresistible need of life, being in the middle of what surrounds it, be part of it, take place. Who is there today? Around me, sun, wind, rain or darkness, the leaves rubs against each other, the wood creaks, ants, flying insects, the spiders wait without moving in the middle of their cobweb, I'm sure they are listening to the wind , a big fish is jumping out of the water, what is that drives him to go and see how it is out there, yonder, elsewhere, the other side, in the same way as any animal, occasionally, in the opposite direction, like diving into the water.

The feeling of being watched is there, again, it comes back. Where are the eyes here, I turn, turn around to check. Concentrate myself on the presences around me is as distracting as seeing my century that goes to terrace of a cafe[1].

The path of Paul Arène, I do it upside down. My first contemplations were deployed in the city, the most beautiful, loafer trainings in Paris at the beginning of teenage years, at the age of twelve, the goal is to get lost, not knowing where I am, and then find the way.
The funniest is when the mind map is in the process of structuring, you fit together two parts as the pieces of a puzzle, you believed they were distant, the territory is growing and shrinking at the same time. A city map was drawn in my mind before any track, trace, line or labyrinth born since then, my son says Paris is a large playground.

One can explore the city before the campaign or countryside before town, we are not forced to choose, we have the right to belong to different worlds as Métis children who mix colors in themselves. There is no union or color juxtaposition that is unlikely.

Defenders of nature, asphalt lovers seem to be opposite whose main feature is to be defined in relation to the other. For a dreamer, the worlds are all too small, immense and infinite. The opposites are probably a practice you take to believe in the waterproofing of universes. There are bees, butterflies, gulls, sunflowers and poppies in Paris, soda bottles floating on the Loing[2], fatty paper, plastics and metal scraps, rust along the ponds of lost campaign.

For 14 years I have lost the habit of my urban walks, it's in the  nature that my strolls continue. I would keep the nostalgia of Paris in the provinces, in Provence or in any of my migration. I will remain faithful to it as my birthland. I would write my disability to live fully there. I will draw the sides of buildings, roofs that stand out against the horizon, the volumes, windows and lights, shadows and density.

Monday morning, after three days of bucolic weekend return into the stream, it would be more fun to daydream on the urban shore - to appreciate where one stands, only contemplation appears effective, in my opinion.

Aggressive drivers, flashing headlights or klaxons for the one who is slow to get the right reaction, fishtail, accelerations, a strange calm protect my stepping aside, play who can piss the farthest doesn't entertain me every day, the right response is never the right one. I extend my escapades in telling them. But don't you have anny fear, all alone? asks me a female patient

For some time now, in my city living, abysses open up such whirlwinds, miniature twisters which would have almost power to snap up me if I was passing next without paying attention. The banks of the Loing today are my against-power, inverse aspiration, I refuse to be afraid of my neighbor, or any living being. In the car a music rock, a song is humming in my head: And I swear That I don’t have a gun[3]. Codes at the entrance, intercoms, locks, my defenses enclose only myself.

This morning a man badly shaved admonish me because I didn't park myself in the exact space delimited by white stripes of parking, a patient grumpy for my delay wonder if the late awakening was good this morning, a young father family requires me to throw my plastic bottle in the right trash can. Did I forced someone to get out of its own bounds?

Thoughts to dragonflies of the Loing, to poppies of the Basses Alpes, the sun is rising behind the mountain, on the Valensole the lavender should be cut now, I still have to make discoveries on the edge of the channels, not to mention the caves, forests, abandoned houses, industrial wasteland and demolition sites.

I am afraid that the shores move away, that the passageways are shutting, that my eyesight decrease, or when anger seizes me. Cross a magnet on the waterside is my hope, I'm just starting to explore space, the banks of rivers, watching the eyes which surround me, getting lost it is still the first time. The next, I will take couple of good cakes.

Take your time, Hurry up
Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be
And I swear that I don’t have a gun
No I don’t have a gun

 myriam eyann

[1] Paul Arène , french author, see links
[2] The Loing is a river on which I truly live, as water goes under my home (I live in an old mill)
Also Loing is in french phonetically identical to the word far , loin
[3] Nirvana  song Come as you are


Paul Arène        C’est de cet endroit bien chauffé qu’il faut voir son siècle qui passe
I wrote a text about Paul Arène which I don't feel able to translate because of all quotes I made in. 
It is to read in the french version of the blog, E degun a qui parla, 19 août 2014
Paul Arène grew up in Provence, in the south of France and settled in Paris young adult. He wrote both the nostalgia of his native Provence and his love of Paris. I lived 1é years in the Alpes de Haute Provence also nammed Basses Alpes, in the French Alps mountain. The Valensole (le plateau de Valensole) is the most famous site to lavender of the world. I worked there.

Nirvana, lyrics Kurt Cobain
"Come as you are" , album Nevermind (1991)
Version unplugged (New York 1993)

Come as you are, as you were,                          
As I want you to be ,
As a friend, as a friend
As an old enemy. 

Take your time, hurry up
The choice is yours,
Don't be late.
Take a rest as a friend,
As an old memory, ah
Memory, ah 

Come dowsed in mud, soaked in bleach
As I want you to be
As a trend, as a friend, as an old memory, ah
 Memory, ah

And I swear that I don't have a gun
No I don't have a gun
Memory, ah

Memory, ah - and I don't have a gun

And I swear that I don't have a gun
No I don't have a gun

Memory, ah

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There are authors who write with light, others with blood, with lava, with fire, with soil, with mud, with diamond powder, and finally those who write with ink, the unfortunate, with ink simply.

Pierre Reverdy, Le Livre de mon bord